


The Reality of Our Powerlessness

by xcourtney_chaoticx



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Old Friends, Platonic Dworin, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Romantic Friendship, from beginning to end - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcourtney_chaoticx/pseuds/xcourtney_chaoticx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...their weapons-masters saw a great deal of potential in them, particularly the fast-growing Dwalin. The two fought seamlessly together, both in offense and defense, Dwalin's chosen twin axes working in perfect concert with Thorin's broadsword. Dwalin loved training and fighting more than anything he learned in his lessons with Thorin, though he excelled in military tactics and history. Perhaps, like Fundin, he could be a great soldier and warrior, a general to stand at Thorin's side when he took the throne."</p>
<p>The story of Dwalin and Thorin's friendship, from its beginning to its end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reality of Our Powerlessness

**Author's Note:**

> Snapped this out over a few days during my internship in Montana. I've just been having a lot of Hobbit-related feels, and so I needed an outlet. I also had a great many Dwalin/Thorin related feels, and I needed some more platonic!Dworin in my life. Their dynamic is just so interesting and subtly played in the film. In the special features, Graham McTavish mentions that Dwalin is Thorin's right hand man, so I wanted to play with that. I figured I would share it with all of you as well, and I'm going to apologize ahead of time if anyone is overcome by emotion and/or tears. I very nearly cried while writing this.
> 
> Warnings: canonical character death; mentions of war; some violence.
> 
> A/N: The timeline here is a combination of film and book. I can't figure out exactly what the timeline is or how old Thorin is supposed to be, and I've made Dwalin older than he's supposed to be in the book, though I've used the book's general timeline of events.

Dwalin, son of Fundin, was born just days before Prince Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. His father was a great warrior and a good friend of Thrain, so Dwalin found himself raised at court with the small prince where, like their fathers before them, they became close friends. Dwalin certainly enjoyed spending time with Thorin more than with his elder brother, Balin. Balin was shaping up to be a great warrior in his own right at nineteen years Dwalin’s senior, but he preferred histories and books to fighting. He was always trying to get Dwalin to read and study. Thorin liked to roughhouse and explore as much as Dwalin, maybe more, though as a prince he was required to devote a certain amount of his time to history and other academic pursuits. Not liking to be away from his favorite companion for very long, Dwalin begged to have lessons with Thorin until the masters gave in and agreed.

Even the births of Thorin's younger brother and sister couldn't part the two friends for very long. They simply brought Frerin and Dis into their antics, the four of them wreaking havoc on Erebor. The dwarrows of the Lonely Mountain learned to keep an eye out when they spied one because the other three were certainly not far behind. Dwalin and Thorin somehow found time for their schooling among their misbehaving, and even at the age of sixteen, their weapons-masters saw a great deal of potential in them, particularly the fast-growing Dwalin. The two fought seamlessly together, both in offense and defense, Dwalin's chosen twin axes working in perfect concert with Thorin's broadsword. Dwalin loved training and fighting more than anything he learned in his lessons with Thorin, though he excelled in military tactics and history. Perhaps, like Fundin, he could be a great soldier and warrior, a general to stand at Thorin's side when he took the throne. That seemed like a good destiny to him.

Though Thorin was most often a cheerful dwarfling, he did sometimes feel the weight of his birthright, and Dwalin couldn't blame him. He was a soldier, but he was not stupid. The Thror that sat on the throne was not the same Thror as when they were small. He saw how the old king preferred to wander among his gold and jewels than be among living dwarves. 'Dragon-sickness' it was called, and it had afflicted many a dwarf-lord who possessed such a hoard. Many of them would waste away among their treasure, refusing to eat or sleep or drink. His grandfather's behavior troubled Thorin deeply, though he would never admit it… until he came to Dwalin one evening, wringing his hands, his expression distracted and worried.

"Thorin? What's wrong? What's the matter?" Dwalin asked worriedly.

"It's… it's my grandfather," Thorin told him quietly, "He's-… no, I shouldn't say anything…"

"Maybe not to anyone else… but you can tell me anything, Thorin. You know that. You know I'll always listen, no matter what. I mean, I don't have any wise words or solutions like Balin, but I can listen."

For a moment, Dwalin feared Thorin would say nothing, would simply shake his head and leave to wander the halls of Erebor alone. He reached out and gripped Thorin's arm gently, whispering, "Please… I want to help. Let me help."

Thorin gazed up at his friend, blue eyes wide and wet and so full of love Dwalin felt his heart clench in his chest. He waited for Thorin to nod. Together, they went over and sat on Dwalin's bed as they had done when they were small: cross-legged, facing each other, gripping each other's hands. Thorin broke like a dam. He spilled his heart, telling Dwalin of the extent of Thror's dragon-sickness, how the old king was near wasting away in his pile of gold.

"But that's not what has me so frightened, Dwalin… I… I had a dream last night," Thorin whispered, his voice so low Dwalin could just barely hear him, "An awful dream. It filled me with such fright that… that I'm surprised I didn't wake up screaming."

"What was it about?"

Thorin shook his head, dropping his gaze, his eyes filling with tears. Dwalin squeezed his friend's hands reassuringly. The prince needed someone to talk to, someone who would not do anything but listen, who wouldn't trouble him with advice that wouldn't work. Thorin pulled in a shuddering breath.

"There was… there was a dragon," he told Dwalin in a small voice, "A huge dreadful beast belching out fire and killing our people. It was horrible… and worse, in my dream… in my dream, it was Thror who became the dragon. The sickness actually turned him into a dragon, and he destroyed Erebor, Dwalin. They were dead… all of them were dead…"

"Who, Thorin?"

"My father and mother… Frerin and Dis… my grandmother… and you, Dwalin."

His eyes were wet and bright, tears ready to fall. He continued tremulously, "I couldn't-… that was when I woke up. I couldn't bear to see you like that, all cold and lifeless. I… you were dead. You're the best friend I have in this world, Dwalin, and there you were just-just dead and-and-… I just had to come here to make sure you were alive."

"And I am alive, Thorin," Dwalin replied softly, "I'm right here with you, right now, and I always will be."

"You can't promise that. You won't always be alive… no one will."

"Maybe not, but I'll always be with you, at your side. You can count on that. I promise."

They were young and foolish and naïve, so Thorin accepted Dwalin's promise with an embrace, they went out to make trouble in order to forget it all, as boys were wont to do.

When Smaug came a week later, Dwalin was one of the ones lucky enough to escape early, having been with Frerin and Dis while Thorin and Balin were up on the wall. He and Fundin had made sure the prince and princess got to safety when Dwalin realized Thorin and Balin were still in the mountain. He would have gone running back in if his father had not held him back, pulling him along with the throng. Anxiety soured his mouth as they ran. Balin and Thorin had been on the battlements when Smaug came, and Dwalin knew Thorin and Thrain would go to fetch Thror from his gold to get him to safety. The three of them would likely fight the beast for the mountain and its treasure.

For days, he could neither eat nor sleep. Uneasiness roiled in his gut, as the dwarves of Erebor left the immediate area of the Lonely Mountain to avoid further attack by Smaug. Only a week before, Dwalin had promised to always be at Thorin's side, to protect him, to watch his back. Were his promises really so weak and worthless?

"…Dwalin? I'm looking for Dwalin, son of Fundin. Have you seen him or Fundin, son of Farin?"

"Thorin?" Dwalin called, hardly believing he'd heard that voice.

"Dwalin? Dwalin!"

The young prince's hair and clothes were singed. He was smattered with soot and blood and dirt. Two clean tracks ran through the dirt on his face, though he broke into a wide smile upon catching sight of Dwalin, pushing through the crowd to reach his friend. The two dwarrows threw themselves at each other, embracing and doing their best not to cry in front of everyone. (Not that it would have really mattered. There was rather a lot of crying happening after Smaug took Erebor.)

"I thought I'd lost you," Thorin whispered thickly, "I was so-… I thought you were-"

"I know. I thought the dragon took you," Dwalin replied, "I'm-… please forgive me. It all happened so fast, I had no time to find you, Thorin. I… I should have been there at your side and-"

"No… no, don't say that. I don't need to forgive anything, Dwalin. You're alive. That's all that matters to me. We're alive…"

They touched foreheads briefly, and Thorin left to return to his family as Balin approached with a healer, only mildly wounded. Dwalin and Thorin were exceptionally lucky that day. All their immediate family escaped the wrath of Smaug alive. Few others were so fortunate.

The dwarves of Erebor wandered south along the eastern border of the Greenwood, then along the southern, through the Brown Lands in Rhovannion, across The Wold and Rohan to the Fords of Isen, at last settling for a time in Dunland at the base of the Misty Mountains. Thorin and Dwalin still trained with the weapons-masters who escaped, even when they tinkered for Men all day, fixing swords and armor and plows. Orcs lived in the Misty Mountains now, leaving their people open to attack. Everyone needed to fight to stay alive during such raids. Orcs were fearsome enemies, and Dwalin knew that tiring while fighting them would be a death sentence. He made sure to train past the point of exhaustion to ensure he would be able to protect Thorin in a fight.

"My grandfather wishes to retake Khazad-Dûm," Thorin told him one night.

"Does he?"

"Aye… though I do not agree. The Orcs in Moria are far more dangerous than the wandering packs we've encountered in Dunland. They're organized, Dwalin. They have leaders, and one especially that frightens me. Azog. The Pale Orc, they call him. That is a fearsome foe, one I would not hope to meet. They will not let us walk into that mountain, Dwalin. A battle with them, here, would be a bloodbath… on both sides."

Dwalin nodded, saying nothing. Thorin trusted him enough to tell him of such misgivings, trusted him to simply listen. Dwalin was a soldier, not a scholar or a diplomat or a politician or courtier. He had no platitudes or solutions. He was a warrior, in his early fifties and already taller than most dwarves twice his age. (Recently, he'd taken to shaving down the sides of his head, leaving a crest of dark hair down the middle. He felt it made him look rather like an axe and very fearsome.) Thorin's duty was to be a prince; Dwalin's was to be a soldier. It was simple.

Thorin continued, "I tried to convince him otherwise. I tried to tell him we should continue on to Eriador and the Blue Mountains. There are a number of dwarves already living there, and I do not doubt they would welcome us… or at least they would not shun us or send us away. After all, the Blue Mountains were once home to Nogrod and Belegost, the great dwarf kingdoms."

"Aye, I remember. I sat through the same histories you did," Dwalin replied.

"Of course, how rude of me to forget."

"Damn right it is," Dwalin muttered.

Thorin smacked him hard on the arm with a smirk but sobered quickly. Dwalin asked, "What did your grandfather say?" and watched his friend's expression darken. Clearly, the answer hadn't been one he wanted.

"He told me no. Not only that, but he told me I was a disappointment and a craven for not wanting to retake Khazad-Dûm," Thorin told him quietly, "When I told him I didn't wish to see our people's lives wasted on a folly, he hit me and ordered me to keep my mouth shut until I decided to behave like an heir of Durin once more. He actually raised his hand against me…"

His voice choked off. Dwalin felt fury boiling in his chest. Dwarves were tough with their children and dwarflings, but they did not strike them. A spanking, maybe, if a little one misbehaved routinely, and Dwalin had certainly had his ears boxed more times than he could count, but even at his worst, Dwalin had never been struck. He gave Thorin a closer look, now seeing the bruise blooming across the side of his face. Tears glistened in Thorin's eyes for the first time Dwalin had seen since their reunion after Smaug took Erebor.

"He's just not himself anymore, Dwalin, and-and I don't know when he became this other person. You remember what he was like when we were small. He's… I don't know who he is anymore…"

Dwalin hugged his friend close to his side, letting Thorin bury his face in his shoulder and pretending he didn't know Thorin was crying. He wasn't going to pretend he could fix this. He was just a soldier.

Thror chose to attack at Azanulbizar, the east gate of Moria, with all the strength he could muster. Dwalin sat with Thorin and Frerin the night before the great battle, awkwardly listening to them argue about whether or not Frerin should fight. Thror insisted Frerin fight though he was not yet fifty, while Thorin was expressly against the idea. Frerin, however, wanted to fight, wanted to be considered an adult, and Thorin was desperately trying to change his mind.

"You know nothing of battle!" Thorin told him firmly, "It's not fun or glorious! Have you not seen Dwalin and I return from fighting Orcs, bloodied and battered?"

Frerin was handsome as his elder brother, dark of hair but with brown eyes instead of blue, and his features were a bit softer than Thorin's. It fit his carefree personality, not having the burden of being heir to the throne. Dwalin agreed with Thorin, though, that Frerin was not taking this seriously.

"Of course I've seen you after fighting Orcs," the younger prince replied, "Both of you are always excited, always talking about how many you killed or how Fundin slew an Orc with his bare hands or how good Gloin was or-"

"But you don't know anything about it, Frerin! You've never fought before!"

"Because you won't let me! I'm not a child, Thorin!"

"Yes! Yes, you are a child!"

Frerin stormed out of the tent, and Thorin fumed well into the night before Dwalin could finally get him calmed enough to go to sleep. (Frerin came back in the middle of the night, pulling his bedroll over so he could sleep pressed against his elder brother.) Dwalin was with Thorin as much as he could be the next day during the battle, but they were separated early on, especially as the dwarves began to thin out. Orcs outnumbered Dwarves that day by almost double, somewhere around fifteen thousand Orcs to only eight thousand Dwarves, and while the Dwarves were killing a great many Orcs, they were still dying in vast numbers themselves. Dwalin was even separated from his brother and father. Thrain and Fundin had led an initial attack to begin, but the vanguard had been driven into the woods near Kheled-zâram (also called the Mirrormere) and was engaged there still. A cry rent the air.

Azog, the Pale Orc, held aloft the head of Thror like a prize, then tossed it at Thorin's feet like trash. Thorin lashed out, but Dwalin did not see what happened after as an attacking Orc drew his attention. He was sure he would hear tales later. He found Thorin after the battle, after he and Balin learned of Fundin's death. Thorin was headed for Kheled-zâram, where both Frerin and Fundin had last been seen; Dwalin joined him. Together, the two friends trudged through the blood and mud and around bodies of Dwarves and Orcs alike. Every so often, a dwarven body would elicit a remark, such as, "That was Jarl the Smith," or "That was Torvald, Tormund's son," or "That was Loki, remember him?" as they passed by. Neither wept. They wouldn't know who to weep for.

Then Dwalin saw him, dead, his eyes blank and clouded, his entrails spilling out of his body. It was a truly horrible sight.

"Thorin," he called, his voice rough, "Thorin… I… over here…"

He wanted nothing more than to spare Thorin that sight, but that was not his duty. He was just a soldier, silent and steady. Dwalin sat by as Thorin approached his brother's body. The bright blue eyes filled with tears that instantly went spilling down his cheeks. He shook his head, his expression numb and disbelieving, muttering, "No… no, this cannot be… it can't be," falling to his knees beside Frerin's body. He gathered the corpse up in his arms, bringing one hand up to touch the cold face.

The sound that loosed itself from Thorin's lips sent tears pouring down Dwalin's face. It was heartrending, so sad and full of grief he's sure it would have set tears in the eyes of Orcs. Thorin wailed as he rocked back and forth, cradling Frerin's body in spite of the gore. Dwalin moved to sit beside him, unable to watch his closest friend suffer alone, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Comfort was all he had to offer there in the woods near Kheled-zâram. Comfort was all he had to offer when they finally came to take Frerin for funeral preparations while Thorin begged them not to. Comfort was all he had to offer when they returned to their tent. He held Thorin all night while he wept and sobbed, as he did for many nights after. Dwalin was the only one he would tolerate in his presence, and who was Dwalin to deny his prince and let him suffer in silence? He stayed with him nights and stood by him when the bodies of the fallen dwarves were burned on their pyres a week after. He wasn't sure how many were actually counted among the dead. Balin simply told him, "Our dead number beyond the count of grief."

Thrain, fool that he was, wanted to chase the Orcs into the mountain and was only stopped because none of those alive would follow him, especially when the valley burned and smoldered around them. Dwalin, at Balin's behest, kept Thorin away from any talks of further attacks on Khazad-Dûm, and Dwalin agreed with the decision.

"I wish it were me," Thorin murmured one night after the Burning.

Dwalin sat closer to him, sure he could touch him, and asked, "What's that?"

"I wish I were in Frerin's place. I wish I were dead, and he was still alive."

"I don't. I'm glad you're alive. I wish Frerin were still alive, too, but I don't wish you were in his place, Thorin. And I don't think you would, either, knowing how it feels."

"I just… he was a child, Dwalin. A _child_! He wasn't even fifty! A child and-and he's out there a pile of ashes be-because an old man wanted treasure! My brother is dead for a pile of gold we never got! Can that gold bring him back? Can the-the smiths forge him from mithril? _Can they_?"

Thorin was shouting by the end, his face red, tears streaming. (Dwalin didn't know how he had any tears left to shed.) This was the first time Thorin had actually admitted Frerin was dead. He continued, "He had no right to send him into that battle! _No right_! What have we gained, huh? What good has this battle done? All we have is a-a-a wretched patch of ground, thousands of dead dwarves, and ten thousand Orc corpses! My brother died for _nothing_! Thousands died for _nothing_! Thror died for nothing, too, and _I'm glad of it_! _This was all his fault_!"

Dwalin said nothing. Thorin could not be calmed now; he just had to wait for Thorin to calm himself. It happened quickly. Thorin seemed to realize what he said and what it meant and was horrified by it. Dwalin moved quickly to catch him as he crumpled, sobbing, apologizing for what he said and begging forgiveness. He could think of nothing to say to assuage Thorin's grief, though even if he could, he would likely remain silent. He wasn't good with words, but he was good at being quiet and steady.

Things were slightly better after that. The Dwarves of Erebor did split up, some going to the Iron Hills, making a long trek back East, while Thrain and Thorin led their folk west to Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains. A sizeable colony of dwarves already resided in the Blue Mountains, largely refugees from when Durin's Bane woke in Khazad-Dûm, driving them out hundreds of years ago. Dwalin dutifully followed his friend and prince across Enedwaith on the North-South Road, over the Greyflood at Tharbad, into and across Eriador until they reached the Blue Mountains. The Dwarves of Erebor were greeted warmly and made to feel like they were welcome in the southern chain, though after a short time, they moved up to the Northern Chain, above the Gulf of Lhûn. The work was hard in the Blue Mountains and their mines, and the halls were nowhere near as grand as those of Erebor, but it began to feel like home to many of the dwarves. Thorin's sister, Dis, even took a husband, a dwarf of the Blue Mountains called Loni.

Thrain disappeared not long after that. He simply wandered off into the wild, never to be seen again, making Thorin Oakenshield king. It was strange sometimes when Dwalin remembered his closest friend was his king. When they were small, he'd occasionally forgotten Thorin was a prince. Perhaps it was just because they were such good friends and because they always shared secrets and because they would roughhouse together. Thorin still came to him, seeking a friendly ear that wouldn't ply him with useless advice, laying out his troubles and concerns to his closest friend. Thankfully, it also meant Dwalin was the first to receive good news.

"A boy, Dwalin!" Thorin told him excitedly, wearing a wide, toothy grin, "She and Loni have decided to name him Fili. Oh, he's wonderful. He looks very much like Loni, all that blond hair on his head already. And strong, Dwalin! You should have heard him squalling away!"

Thorin seemed to grin for a month straight, just as proud as if he were the boy's own father.

"I want Fili to be my heir," Thorin said one night while sitting with Dwalin, "We both know I will never be wed, and the boy _is_ of my blood."

"Have you spoken to Dis yet?"

"No… I… I wanted your opinion first," Thorin admitted, "I trust you more than anyone, and… do you think it a good idea? To name Fili my heir?"

"I can see no reason not to."

"You're not just agreeing with me to please me, are you?"

"Thorin, when have I ever done that? You know I enjoy nothing more than arguing with you," Dwalin replied, "I think it's a fine idea. Just make sure Dis and Loni think so, too."

The king was just as excited upon the birth of his second nephew as the first, a dark-haired lad named Kili. Thorin loved nothing more than fawning over his sister-sons, plying them with toys and sweets whenever possible. When Loni was killed in an Orc raid, the boys clung to Thorin as a father figure, and Dwalin became an uncle to them. He and Thorin trained the brothers in combat, teaching them to fight as a unit as they did. When Kili showed a keen interest in bowmanship, they sought someone who could properly teach him the weapon while still training him on the sword. Dwalin told him, "You'll run out of arrows, but you'll never run out of sword."

Dwalin remained a soldier, the soldier closest to Thorin, and as such he was asked to sit in on council meetings with the scholars and politicians and diplomats. They learned not to ask his opinion, for all he would say was, "Couldn't say. Thank Mahal, I'm a soldier," and nothing else. If he found a notion particularly vile, he would then speak up, but only when he knew he had something of value to say. Other than that, he sat quietly at Thorin's right hand, much to the chagrin of the politicians and diplomats. (He fondly recalled hearing Thorin severely chiding one of the councilmen for merely suggesting Dwalin had no place there and certainly not at his right hand. That councilman did not return and was quickly replaced.)

So it was that Dwalin heard Oin, son of Groin, explain the portents at Erebor and say that the time had come to retake the mountain. That certainly set the old men squawking. Thorin listened patiently to reasons for going and reasons for not going and entreaties to call upon the other dwarf lords for advice and men before finally dismissing everyone.

"Dwalin, would you remain?"

"Aye, m'lord."

Thorin beckoned for him to follow and led Dwalin back to his private chamber, which Dwalin could not say he was unfamiliar with. His king bid him to sit, so he did.

"Well, Dwalin?"

"Well what?"

"You know very well what," Thorin responded, approaching and lowering his voice, "You heard Oin. Birds are returning to the mountain. Smaug has not been seen for over sixty years now. Perhaps… perhaps it is time to take back Erebor."

Dwalin said nothing.

"Dwalin, please-"

"I'm thinking! Give me a moment…"

He laid out the logistics and a plan, knowing it would be difficult, suggesting a small group go out to reconnoiter, then if all was well a larger party could follow. He laid it out plainly, in a soldier's words.

"It would be no small feat, but I do think it can be done."

"But _should_ it be done, Dwalin?"

When Dwalin did not reply, Thorin sighed, saying, "My friend, I know I often only request your silent assurance, but… but now I need your counsel, a soldier's counsel… a friend's counsel. What should I do?"

Dwalin's reply was simple, but he believed it true: "You must do whatever you feel is right by our people, Thorin."

"Yes… yes, of course… you know…" Thorin started, paused, continued, "Dwalin, you know I would not undertake such a quest without you by my side."

"No… nor would I wish you to."

The smile Thorin gave him was bright and happy, one he rarely offered anyone other than his sister and nephews… and Dwalin. The king went on, "I've also heard from the wizard Gandalf. I met up with him in Bree, though I expect it was not entirely by chance. He told me he would help us retake the Lonely Mountain. Hearing from Oin today makes me feel certain the time is upon us. I'm just not sure who else would join us."

Dwalin thought it over a moment, pondered whom he would have by his side if trouble came, and offered, "Only begin with the trustworthy. The fewer who know the better. You'll certainly have me by your side. I'm sure Balin would come, as well, if you asked. Oin's old, but there's no better Healer, and even if he can't hear too well, he's still a good fighter. His brother Gloin is good at collecting coin, but he's got a wee lad, Gimli, and may want to stay for him. There's that toymaker, Bifur, and his cousin Bofur. Fair fighters, if a bit unorthodox, and good lads."

"Aye, I know them. Bifur was wounded at Azanulbizar, took an Orc axe to the head. It addled him rather badly. Only speaks Khuzdul and Iglishmêk but makes the most wonderful toys. I used to buy them for Fili and Kili when they were small. Bofur worked with him usually, translated for him, took care of him. They're both honorable dwarves. Bofur has a… brother, I think?"

"Bombur," Dwalin nodded, "Another good fella. He works as a cook most days. Great huge dwarf. Got a wife and some bairns, but he may come if Bofur and Bifur do. Beyond that, I'm not sure who would come. Many would be loathe to risk their lives against a dragon, even for you."

It was Thorin's turn to nod. He cast his gaze upon nothing in particular, falling silent. Dwalin watched him pace slowly about his chamber, lost in thought.

"They'll want to come, of course," he muttered at last.

"Who'll want to come, Thorin?"

"Fili and Kili."

Of course. Fili and Kili doted on their uncle, hung on his every word and deed. They would likely have to tie the lads to a tree to keep them from following their uncle to Erebor, and even then… Thorin continued to mutter to himself and pace. Dwalin waited patiently for Thorin to address him again.

"It's not often I get advice from you, Dwalin, " he said after a while, "but when I do, I take it to heart. The dwarves you named are all good choices. I will go to them within the week, and if any agree, you'll be the first to know."

Thorin approached him, smiling once more, and gripped him by the forearms, pressing their foreheads together.

"Thank you, Dwalin," he whispered, "I could not ask for a better friend and companion. Your loyalty and trust mean more to me than all the treasure in Erebor."

"And yours to me, Thorin."

The quest was quite perilous, full of trolls and Orcs and goblins and wargs. Their little hobbit burglar was hardly of any use until he saved Thorin by charging the Orc ready to behead him. It dismayed Dwalin to know he wasn't the first to save Thorin, that he wasn't right there by his side, that someone else could display such loyalty, someone who barely knew him. Still, Thorin lived, and shouldn't that be all that mattered? At Beorn's house, such thoughts kept the soldier awake while the others snored. Thorin, also unable to sleep, pulled Dwalin off to sit away from the company. They sat in silence for a time, just content to know the other was there.

"Something's troubling you, Dwalin," Thorin murmured eventually, "and don't try to tell me there's not. I've known you for almost 200 years. I know when you are troubled."

"I should have been there," he replied after a beat.

Thorin cocked his head at him, his brow furrowing slightly. Dwalin cast his gaze down at his lap, unable to look at his friend.

"I should've been there to protect you, not that halfling," he admitted softly, "I swore to protect you, to stand by your side against whatever may come, and where was I when Azog almost took your head? Stuck in a bloody tree…"

"You were _stuck_. I know you got out as fast as you could. Fili and Kili told me you fought beside them before the eagles came, and for that, I am grateful. I would have you defend them rather than me any day. If I were to lose you or Fili and Kili, I… I don't think I could go on."

"Of course you could," Dwalin grunted, "Don't be ridiculous."

"I wouldn't. Without you-"

"I'd make you go. You owe those lads that mountain. It's their birthright as much as yours, Thorin."

His friend stared at him, his expression unreadable, and Dwalin was forced to look away again. He should not have spoken so boldly. Thorin's eyes were burning holes through him in the darkness. One of Thorin's hands came to rest on his, squeezing gently.

"Dwalin… without you, Erebor wouldn't feel like home," he whispered.

That made Dwalin look up again, set something warm and heavy burning in his chest. He mulled over Thorin's words, and the more he pondered them, the more sense they made.

"Azog almost killed you," Dwalin told him at long last, "I nearly lost you. If I had… I would not have gone on with this quest. I'd have taken your boys back to the Blue Mountains to their mother and never thought of Erebor again… except to remember you…"

The smile Thorin gave him was soft and quiet. He rested his forehead against Dwalin's briefly, still squeezing his hand. When he pulled back, he asked, "Please, Dwalin, would check these bandages for me?"

"Just like old times, eh?"

"Aye, just like old times."

The company made it to Erebor largely unscathed, though once in the mountain, Thorin began to change. Dwalin watched as he spent an increasing amount of time among the treasure hoard. He became angry and occasionally unreasonable, snapping at everyone, including his sister-sons and Dwalin. The three of them did their best to the soothe the company's ruffled feathers, secretly hoping they could fix Thorin's sickness before it killed him… or all of them.

The night before their great battle, Dwalin sat by a Thorin he barely knew but couldn't leave. All night he prayed his friend would recover his wits, but only with first light did Thorin ask in a wavering voice, "I've become him, haven't I?"

Dwalin did not trust himself to reply.

"Do you hate me, Dwalin?"

"No, Thorin," he replied immediately, "I could never hate you."

"You should. I don't know why you don't. I… I hate myself," Thorin said, his voice increasingly frantic, "I hate what I'm doing here. I-I-I hate what I've become. Dwalin, please-"

Dwalin shushed him. The others were beginning to stir, and he did not want them to see Thorin so upset before such an important battle. He pulled his king away from the company to a quiet, bare chamber, containing only a table and some broken chairs. Carefully, Dwalin lifted the crown from Thorin's brow, set it on the table beside them, and pulled him into an embrace. Thorin pressed his forehead against Dwalin's, reaching up to grip at the back of Dwalin's head as if he thought the soldier would pull away from him, would suddenly deny him the comfort he always provided. Dwalin mirrored him, resting his hands in Thorin's dark hair, trying to soothe him. The king trembled against him, his breaths quick and shaking.

"I promised I would stand by you no matter what," Dwalin murmured, not releasing Thorin, "So I will stand at your side through this, my brother, until the very end… and I will never hate you. I promise you that."

"Thank you."

The last words were so low and choked that Dwalin wasn't quite sure he heard them, but he carried them with him into battle. He and Thorin, as at Azanulbizar, were separated early on, but he had no doubt they would reunite after the fighting was over, whereupon Thorin would take up the throne of Erebor with Dwalin at his right hand.

He never dreamed it would end like this. Thorin lay in a tent on the battlefield, bleeding out on a rough cot, the bodies of his sister-sons laid out beside him as if they were asleep. Dwalin felt ready to collapse at the sight but forced himself to walk forward; Thorin needed him. He approached the cot, pulling off his bloodied knuckledusters and sitting beside his friend, calling his name softly. Blue eyes flickered open and slowly focused on him.

"Dwalin… Dwal-Dwalin, I'm… I'm so glad you're he-here," he stuttered out.

Thorin bore many wounds, especially to his abdomen and chest, and his sword arm was slightly bent at an odd angle. Dwalin told himself Thorin would survive as he always did, but one look to the corpses of his nephews said otherwise.

"I came as soon as I heard," Dwalin told him.

"Please, D-Dwalin… p-please don't hate me-me…"

"I said I never would, remember?"

"But look wh-what I did," Thorin whimpered, tears falling from his eyes, "All th-those p-people dead because-… because of-of me… b-be-because of my greed. I-I turned into h-him… into my gran-grandfather-"

"Quiet, Thorin," Dwalin muttered thickly, "You're ten times the dwarf Thror was, even in your sickness. I'm proud to have fought with you."

"You… you sh-should've left… should've left…"

"I would never leave you. I made a promise, remember? I said I would always be by your side, and I meant it."

"Why did you stay?" Thorin asked anyway, "I… I was aw-awful to you."

"Because I knew you weren't yourself, that you wouldn't behave that way if not for the sickness… because you're my king…" Dwalin swallowed thickly, "because you are the greatest friend I have in this world, closer than my brother… because I love you as my brother, Thorin."

The smile Thorin gave him was bloody and weak. It made Dwalin's heart clench painfully in his chest.

"I-I… I asked for the half-halfling… to-to apologize… I m-must apologize to him… p-please sit with me un-until then… just sit with me… as you so often do…"

Dwalin moved his seat closer to him, taking his uninjured hand in his own, leaning over to rest his forehead on Thorin's. The king sighed softly, almost contentedly.

"They're waiting for me… for their Uncle Thorin," he muttered.

"Let them wait a while longer. They won't go anywhere," Dwalin replied, his voice choked, "They won't grudge me a little more time."

"No… no, not their Uncle Dwalin…"

Thorin's voice was low and weak, but he was no longer stuttering on his words. He was beginning to become numb, to not feel the pain. The soldier knew what that meant. Cracks were appearing in the soldier's armor.

"Oh, they loved you, Dwalin," Thorin told him weakly, "They loved you so much… though not quite as much… not quite so much as I, my brother."

The cracks were spreading, widening.

"My brother… this is the only time… only time I will ask this of you… Please… please, would you look at me?"

Dwalin picked his head up to look at his friend, unable to stop the tears filling his eyes, muttering, "Anything. I will always do anything you ask, Thorin."

With great effort, Thorin lifted his uninjured arm, resting his hand on Dwalin's cheek. His lips bore the barest hint of smile, tears shining in his eyes once more.

"Dwalin… my dearest companion… my… my most beloved friend… for the first time… and for the last… I must ask you not to follow me… though I will look for you in the Halls of Waiting… so we may be sure to go on our last journey together…"

The big soldier fought his tears and, feeling it slipping, reached up to hold Thorin's hand where it rested on his cheek.

"Even now, you remain quiet… that is always the… the thing I have loved most in you… quiet and steady as the mountains… but with much to say if one knew how to listen… long… long have I known of your love," the dying king murmured, guiding Dwalin to bend enough for Thorin to press a kiss to his forehead, "…and so I know you know of mine… but I will say it now before… before it is too late… You are closer to me than a brother, more dear to me than anyone… and I love you, Dwalin."

The soldier's armor shattered. Tears flooded from Dwalin's eyes. He wept as he had not since Azanulbizar. He dropped his head, resting his forehead on Thorin's as he sobbed, still pressing his friend's hand to his cheek. It fell to Thorin to comfort his grief, to soothe his tears. He offered Dwalin soft words in his low, deep voice, telling him not worry, that it would be alright, that he would be able to carry on. Dwalin continued to weep uncontrollably. He was not comforted. He was not soothed.

Dwalin was a soldier… and a soldier should not outlive his king.

_“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion,_  
who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement,   
who can tolerate not knowing, not curing,   
not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness,   
that is a friend who cares.”  
~Henri Nouwen 

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on FF.net at Angst Is My Middle Name


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